


a lifetime with your lifeline wrapped around my throat

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Non-Graphic Violence, Pain, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac wants to feel Scott's hands on him, wants to feel his fingers turn to claws against his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a lifetime with your lifeline wrapped around my throat

**Author's Note:**

> Written very quickly after 3x13, "Anchors." Ended up more violent than I'd anticipated, but hey, I guess that's what happens to my brain when Isaac asks Scott to hit him. Thus, warnings for vague self-harm ideation? Wasn't exactly my intent, but it kind of comes across that way, and I just want to make sure everyone's properly warned.
> 
> And as always with me, warnings for run-on sentences and excessive use of the em dash. Title from "Thanks to You" by All Time Low.

“I think you should hit me.”  
  
Isaac’s pacing, fingers clenched into fists until his nails threaten to dig into his palms, to break skin, and he’s tempted to let them. He’d ached for all of five minutes when Scott threw him against that wall, but the pain has long since faded and with it the clarity of its jagged edges.  
  
Wanting Allison, goading Scott— it couldn’t end well, whether it be an arrow in the chest or a bruised tailbone, and Isaac supposes he should consider himself lucky it’s only the latter. But like the dull ache of a bruise, that’s only what lingers just beneath the surface: there’s something else that’s cut far deeper.  
  
He’d thought maybe, maybe it had healed (maybe it had never been there at all, the product of confused gratitude and twisted desires) but he’s fairly sure Allison is the bandage he’d placed over the wound (so _easy,_ with her sparkling smile, the scent of her hair and the sound of her laughter) but now the edges are curling, worn away and he can’t help but pick at it, lift it up and scratch at the scab beneath.  
  
When your nails turn so easily to claws, it’s difficult not to dig too deep.  
  
Isaac’s lived with Scott for months, and he thinks— Scott _has_ to know. Has to have noticed the way Isaac’s eyes slip to his lips when he speaks, trail down his chest when he emerges from the shower with nothing but a towel draped around his waist, linger over his arms, his _hands_ as he works out, effortless and gorgeous.  
  
But the worst of it’s the noises.  
  
He’s tried so hard not to listen, he’s _tried,_ he _has,_ but he’s a teenage boy with emotions and powers he’s not quite able (willing) to control and, well. There was only so long he could hold out without going insane.  
  
It’s not every night, but nearly, and he hardly has to strain to hear— Scott’s moans, _whimpers_ , even, the rustle of sheets and the quick tempo of his heart, of his hand, until he goes still, until Isaac lets out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, listens to Scott curse quietly and reach for the tissues as Isaac bites his lip and slowly disentangles his fingers from the sheets.  
  
There are nights that are worse than others, nights when Scott drags it out, when his moans seem longer, louder, seem to travel down every inch of Isaac’s spine, nights when Isaac tries to calm himself down just to find the sheets shredded in his grip. Those are the nights Isaac gives in, slips a hand into his pajama pants where he’s inevitably hard and leaking, because if it’s touch himself or destroy yet another set of Melissa McCall’s sheets, well, it’s a no-brainer.  
  
(Granted, he’s generally beyond the use of his brain at that point, but— anything he can tell himself. Anything to alleviate the guilt of wanting what he shouldn’t, what he never should have considered in the first place.)  
  
Still, he wonders if Scott listens, too. If Scott’s noticed a pattern to the times Isaac’s moans begin or if he’s too distracted by his own to realize.  
  
(He wonders if Scott thinks of him at all.)  
  
Isaac hopes he’s oblivious, though in the same heartbeat he’s desperate for some acknowledgement, any indication that this fucked up game of cat and mouse is anything but one-sided. If Scott’s aware, though, he’s damn good at playing it cool; he’s no more distant from Isaac but no closer, either, and the constant push and pull is like whiplash in his mind.  
  
So maybe when Scott moans Allison’s name Isaac can pretend he’s thinking about her too, his hands in her hair as a wicked smile plays over her lips. He can pretend he’s thinking of anything but Scott holding him down, pinning him to the bed, against the wall, fingers wrapped around his wrists but this time he wants the bruises to last, thumbprints that decorate his hips or teeth marks scattered across his chest. He doesn’t _want_ like this with anyone else— doesn’t want to hurt, and it’s only because he trusts Scott more than anyone (ever, maybe, and that terrifies him and keeps him warm) that he even _lets_ himself want.  
  
But he won’t ask, because— because that would mean admitting too much, baring his heart like an open wound and he doesn’t trust _himself_ enough not to run and hide, to wrap it in enough gauze to stop the bleeding but not the pain.  
  
Isaac still looks at Scott like Scott is everything to him, or at least everything that matters, because he is— air to a drowning man, and all that. He lingers over the bruises of Allison’s gaze and Scott’s jealousy and pretends he doesn’t feel the tug of stitches barely holding him together, the itch that follows wherever new flesh grows. Because he knows— he can’t ( _won’t_ ) resist the urge to scratch, tough skin met with sharper nails eager to do some damage of their own.  
  
“I think you should hit me—”  
  
—and he’ll look up at Scott from his knees, grin through bloody teeth and ask him to do it again.


End file.
